“No! Not that kind of note! Cassie’s going to call back any second. Here. Drink this.” She put a mug of coffee on the table in front of him. Steam rose from the mug, along with a wonderful aroma. The mug said I’m Kind of a Big Deal in Rhode Island in block letters. It looked like something one of Maggie’s shirts would say.

Anthony’s head was sore. His mouth felt like the inside of a sofa cushion. His stomach quivered. He took a cautious sip of the coffee. It was dark and rich and flavorful, with just a hint of . . .

“Coconut oil,” said Lu, watching him, nodding. “And just a little bit of grass-fed butter, all blended with the coffee. It’s supposed to make you bulletproof. It’s a whole thing.”

Just then Anthony’s phone rang, and Cassie’s name appeared on the screen. Anthony couldn’t hit the answer button fast enough. “Cassie!”

“I’m sorry to interrupt your time with your girlfriend,” Cassie said, brisk and businesslike. “But I thought you might be interested to know that your mother has taken our son and disappeared. In case you didn’t get my messages.”

Lu shooed Chase and Sebastian away into the kitchen, and followed. “My girlfriend?” Anthony whispered. “No, Cassie, she’s not—” He stopped; that wasn’t the line of conversation that was most pressing. “My mother left a note, though, right?” he asked. “Lu said she left a note. Lu said everything is okay.”

Cassie ignored his question. “Your mother has never liked me.”

If Cassie had the wherewithal to complain about Dorothy, she couldn’t have been too worried about Max. “What’d the note say, Cassie?”

“It said, Don’t worry, we went on a little trip.”

“Where was the note?” Anthony said.

“At her house. I went to pick up Max, and all that was there was a note. Which, by the way, it took me some time to find.”

He set that part aside for later. “Where’d they go?” he said. “On this little trip?”

Cassie sighed. “The note didn’t say. I’m not sure. I’m hoping she calls one of us. Your mother did this to spite me, you know. I know she did.”

Cassie was right about one thing. Dorothy had never liked Cassie; she’d never trusted her. She’d tolerated her as the mother of Dorothy’s grandchild, whom she loved to the moon and back, but she had gone no further than that. Dorothy didn’t understand Cassie’s art or her shopping habits or her disinclination toward sugar and wheat or her decorating tastes. (A white nursery?) She didn’t understand anything about her at all.

“She did,” prodded Cassie, when he didn’t immediately answer.

Anthony took another sip of the coffee. It tasted like somebody had blended in a little bit of heaven along with the coconut oil and grass-fed butter. He really did feel bulletproof. Thus emboldened, he asked, “Why was Max at my mom’s in the first place, to be taken?”

“Abducted,” said Cassie.

“Semantics,” said Anthony. “Where were you?”